Shared By The Soldiers (3 page)

4

CHRIS

T
oday is the day my life changed. I can feel it. I can fucking FEEL it!

Just a few minutes ago I got off the phone with my sweet Amy. I called her after my morning drills, just to say hello. It was late back home in the US of A, and Amy was done with dinner and she was watching some TV when I called. She answered the phone almost immediately, even though I hadn’t told her I would be calling. Her voice was high-pitched, and I swear I picked up some nervousness in her tone.

She told me about meeting Susan, of course. Yeah, she told me about it. But what really sent a shiver up my spine, a tremor through my body, a strange feeling down to my gut was what she DIDN’T tell me.

“Yeah, Hale told me Susan might call you up if she had time on her business trip,” I told her. “You guys have fun? What did you two do?”

“Oh, not much. We just went to the Starbucks down at the Galleria. Talked and stuff. It was fun. She’s really nice. It was nice to talk to another military wife, you know?” Amy said, her voice still slightly high-pitched, the words coming out fast, that nervousness still shining through.

“Yeah?” I said, feeling some nervousness in myself as well. “What did you guys talk about?”

Now Amy hesitated, and I felt that chill go through me as I almost panicked for moment, a part of me desperately wishing I had never put this thing in motion, another part of me already feeling my goddamn cock move!

“About you, of course,” Amy answered after that poignant pause that told me everything. “I mean both you guys. You and Hale. How come you never mentioned him before, hon? He sounds really great. A good friend to have.”

And just like that she had changed the subject. Smooth. Fucking SMOOTH! And suddenly I felt a wave of overwhelming emotion pass through me. It only lasted a second, but long enough for me to feel it. My Amy’s no fool. She can act shy and sweet, but she’s sharp as a tack under that external innocence. Although I can’t remember specifically mentioning Hale to her, Amy knows that every man in my unit is my fucking BROTHER, and we are all tight like family. So Amy had to have known that I know EXACTLY what these two women talked about that day over coffee.

And so it’s profoundly meaningful that Amy has chosen to stay silent on the hotwife topic. I mean, if she was completely disgusted or turned off by the idea, I’d have heard about it by now. Oh, HELL yes I’d have heard about it! So the fact that she’s chosen to hold her line even though she knows that I know . . . yes, it can mean only one thing.

It means she’s thinking about it.

She’s fucking thinking about it.

And just like a good Marine can sense a storm front coming in over the horizon, I swear I can feel a cosmic shift of some kind. My life, my marriage, my Amy—everything is going to be different from this day on.

I walk past the workout area now, that weird feeling still in my gut even as I feel my swollen cock push against my underwear as my head spins with conflict, fear, and fucking AROUSAL. I duck into the restrooms now, barricade myself in a stall, whip out my cock and start to jerk off hard as I close my eyes and imagine another man’s hands squeezing my Amy’s perfect tits, another man’s mouth on her lips, another man’s cock pushing its way into her sweet little pussy.

My orgasm comes hard and fast, surprising me with its intensity, and I blink at the sight of my semen all over the inside of the stall. I look down at my cock and see it throbbing and full, and although I have never had an issue getting hard as a rock at a moment’s notice, I swear that right now I feel bigger and harder than I can remember.

Clearly my body wants this, I think as I push my dripping cock back into my pants and zip up. But is my mind ready? Will I be able to handle this when it really happens? Or will it break me, break us?

I’m a Marine, I remind myself as I walk out of the stall now, oblivious to the sights and sounds around me. I don’t break, and I don’t retreat. I’ve set this thing in motion, and I will see it through. There’s no turning back for me.

And so it’s up to my Amy, I realize as I head to the workout area and slap a hundred pounds onto each side of a barbell as I spread my legs and prepare to do some squats. It’s up to my sweet Amy.

So what is she thinking?

What is she thinking?

What is she thinking?

5

AMY

I
don’t know what to think right now. I really don’t.

At first I felt sick as I sat there in that Starbucks and read about this thing called being a “hotwife.” It made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up as a wave of disgust, maybe even terror, passed through me. I wanted to get up and leave, just head out of there without telling Susan, without ever looking her in the eye again. But something inside me kept me there, kept me reading.

And the more I read, the more I wanted to read. This was a world I had no idea even existed! It was so different from my half-baked ideas of things like swinging, wife-swapping, orgies—those things you hear about in passing but never really investigate too closely. Very different. I mean, like most clueless people I had sort of lumped all sorts of non-traditional sexual acts together under the mental category of “These are things that strange, maybe fucked-up people do, and I am nothing like them.” But within thirty minutes of reading some of the posts on a hotwife forum, it was clear that I had been wrong.

Because this wasn’t just sex, although sex was clearly a huge part of it. No, the focus here was very much on the marriage, on the woman, the wife, the HOTWIFE! Certainly there were all kinds of couples that lived this lifestyle, each of them perhaps with their own motivations, their own visions of what they wanted their marriage to be like, what they wanted to get out of these experiences. But the one common thread I saw was that couples living the hotwife lifestyle were, more often than not, enjoying marriages that were strong, healthy, and immensely satisfying both mentally and physically! It was insane!

By the time Susan got back from her shopping or whatever, I swear I was already wet sitting there at that Starbucks table, surrounded by clueless housewives, bored retirees, screaming kids. In fact I was so absorbed in reading some of the first-hand accounts of hotwives from across the country, even the world, that I didn’t even notice Susan quietly sitting down next to me.

I was startled when I felt her touch me on the arm, and I pushed my chair back involuntarily and turned my phone over in embarrassment. But then I saw who it was, and I just laughed in relief and shook my head as I felt the blood rush to my face. I was hot, I realized. Turned on. Aroused even. What was happening to me?

“Give it some time,” Susan said to me like she understood exactly what was happening to me. “Sleep on it tonight. Then read more about it tomorrow. Do that for a week, maybe two weeks, perhaps even a month. When you go out with your girlfriends, observe how men look at you. Maybe hold eye contact with a guy sometime. But nothing more. Remember, this isn’t cheating. It’s about you and your marriage. You and your husband.” She paused for a moment, her grip on my arm still firm. Now her voice softened as she examined my expression. “You seem like a well-raised girl, Amy,” Susan said with a smile. “It’s going to take you a couple of weeks to let the ideas sink in, to allow your subconscious to accept the idea that sex is wonderful and complex, and there are many ways of sharing your sexual energy with your husband.”

And I remember just blinking hard as I stared at her. Of course, I’m not a moron. The way Susan was talking made it clear that it wasn’t a coincidence that she had showed up here. Clearly Chris knows about this, knows SOMETHING about this. Which means he’s thought about it, is thinking about it, perhaps has already decided that it’s something he can live with, something he wants, maybe something he NEEDS!

S
o now, almost a week after that meeting with Susan, now that I’ve had time to let the thoughts seep down into my subconscious, get me to a point where I am thinking about this more and more, with excitement now instead of disgust, anticipation instead of horror, arousal instead of fear . . . yes, now that it’s clear that there is a part of me that is waking up, a sexual being inside me that is coming alive in a surprising way, I know it’s time.

It’s time to talk to Chris about it.

Yes, I know it’s time. But how can I do it? What will he think?

And suddenly I wonder if this is a trick, a trap, a TEST! Is Chris testing my love, my faithfulness, my commitment? Is he worried that I might cheat on him and so he’s trying to set me up, to get me to say that yes, I want to fuck another man! Oh, God! Oh, Lord!

So what do I do? What CAN I do? If Chris knows about Susan and the hotwife conversation, then it’s too late now for me to pretend to freak out at him and be disgusted or pissed off! It’s been over a week now, and so Chris obviously knows that I’ve been thinking about it!

So what do I do?

What do I do?

What do I DO?

I walk to the window now, pull open the curtains, and stare out over our empty backyard. I can see the garage from where I stand, and I can almost picture my Chris standing out there, no shirt on, his body glistening with sweat as he grins and waves at me, his hands all greasy from messing with his beloved truck. And now I feel a wave of love pass through me as I remind myself that Chris is a lot of things, but he’s not a bullshitter and he doesn’t play mind games. He doesn’t try to manipulate people with his mind because he’s never needed to. He’s straight-up honest and blunt, and he backs up everything he says with his sheer physical presence, his absolute confidence. No way is my Chris trying to pull anything backhanded or sketchy here. If he hasn’t said anything yet, it’s for a reason. Either he REALLY doesn’t know what Susan and I talked about, or he’s waiting for me to bring it up. He’s leaving it up to me.

And now I blink away those images of Chris, and I gasp as I see those nameless, faceless soldiers again, both of them standing out there in the backyard, shirts off, their military tattoos shining on their hard bodies. They are standing there smiling, waiting for me to invite them in, into my house, into my marriage, into me.

Into me.

And I pull the curtains shut now and collapse into the big easy chair near the window, my legs already spread, my hand already sliding into my panties, my eyelids starting to flutter as I feel the wetness between my legs.

It’s time, I think as I finger my slit for the second time today. Oh, LORD, it’s time.

6

CHRIS

I
t’s been ten days since Hale’s wife met my Amy and broached the subject, but I have yet to hear a peep out of Amy on the topic. I briefly talked about it with Hale the other day, but he just told me to chill and give her some time. It’s a lot to process, Hale told me. So many women are raised with these conservative, almost sexist ideas of what it means to be a “good” wife, and it’s going to take time for Amy to work her way up to the point where she’s ready to talk about it.

Now I am alone outside the barracks with my laptop. It is early evening my time, which means it’s late morning for Amy. Around me I can hear the sounds of men playing a game of pick-up off to the side, some rock music blaring out of the mess hall, some of the guys laughing and talking shit inside the barracks behind me. But I am alone here, completely focused on the sight of my Amy on the computer screen.

She looks beautiful, I think as I look at the smooth curves of her face, the fullness of her lips, the clarity and innocence in her eyes. But as I watch her speak, I realize that she looks a bit different. She’s lost a couple of pounds, it seems, and wait, is that makeup on her? Wow. I mean, my Amy always put on makeup when we went out, and in the old days (like a year ago—hah!) she’d often put some on even if we were staying in all day. She liked the ritual of painting her face, she told me, and I liked seeing her in makeup too. For her the attraction was that her parents didn’t allow her to use makeup until she was eighteen. For me, well, I guess I’m just an old-fashioned male chauvinist pig who likes a little bit of paint on his women. So sue me.

But she hasn’t worn makeup in months now, as far as I can tell. Certainly not when she’s online with me. And now I watch her stand up and walk over to the window to draw the drapes and reduce the glare in the room, and I gasp as I see her ass in that sundress she’s wearing. My Amy always had a beautiful round ass, large and wonderful, and as I glance hungrily at her calves flex from behind, I realize that she’s been working out over the past week and there is the hint of some muscle definition on her legs.

And now I can feel some nervous tension rise up in me as Amy gets back to her computer and faces the camera again. I look into my wife’s eyes and I sense something different about her, the way she’s looking at me, the way she’s carrying herself. I haven’t had a chance to Skype with her much this past week because we were on alert a couple of times and our Internet access had been temporarily shut down. So what’s happened to my Amy over these past ten days? Is she ready? Is this it? Is this the conversation? The conversation that’s going to put our marriage beyond the point of no return? The conversation where my sweet Amy, my dear wife, tells me that she’s ready to get taken by another man, ready to get fucked by another cock, and all of it with my consent, my approval? Am I really about to share her with another man?

Amy is talking now, telling me about her day, her week, asking me if I’m okay, if I’m eating right, if I’m in any danger. I answer her like a good husband, smiling and nodding, making good eye contact. But I can barely hear myself speak. My head is buzzing and my mind is mush, and I can tell Amy is just going through the motions too. It’s clear that neither of us is thinking about the trivial nonsense that is coming out of our mouths, and the tension is mounting to the point where I am finding it hard to sit still. It’s so fucking weird in a way—I mean, we both know that the other one knows, but still there’s the question of who brings it up first!

And suddenly a great fear grips me as I wonder if I’ve lost my Amy! I can’t explain it, I really can’t! I am panicked now, worried that maybe Amy thinks I’m a freak, or maybe I don’t love her anymore, that I’m trying to drive her away by getting her to sleep with another man. For a moment it crosses my mind that what if Amy thinks I’m gay or something after being around all these guys for a year!

And that’s when I realize that I’m fucking losing my shit. Enough is enough. Sure, I started this and I respect Hale and Susan’s advice to not push it, to give Amy some time, but I’ve never been known for my fucking patience. I need to clear the air before I go insane.

“Look,” I say suddenly, completely cutting Amy off mid-sentence as she tells me something about the neighbor’s dog. “Amy, listen. I—”

“Oh, God, Chris,” she says, almost at the same time now, her expression changing dramatically, urgently, as blood rushes to her face, uncertainty shows in her eyes. Her lips are trembling, but she is forcing out the words. “Chris, baby, you know I would never—”

—and just like that I feel the tension leave me, and in its place is a tremendous feeling of warmth, joy, elation, fucking EXHILARATION. This is my Amy, my baby, my honey. This is US! No one is forcing us to do this! We’re in this conversation because we WANT to be here, right? So what’s the big deal? Fuck this awkwardness! This is my WIFE, goddammit!

So I just start talking now, spilling it all, the words coming out rushed, fast, like a geyser erupting. I tell her about my fantasies, my rising obsession with wanting to watch her, watch her in the throes of ecstasy, watch her being undressed by another man, touched by another man, fucked by another man. I tell her that it sounds crazy, I know. I tell her that I am scared to death, probably like she is. But at the same time I can’t turn away from this. I can’t shake the thought. I think I can handle it if she can, I tell her. I think I want it if she does. Does she want it? Do you want it? Do you?

“Do you?” I say again, breathing heavily from the relief of getting all that off my chest. It’s all out there now, and there’s no going back. There’s no taking back what’s been said. There’s no fucking DELETE button. This is my life, my marriage, my AMY.

And she just looks at me with those big brown eyes, those round cheeks of hers still red and flush, those long eyelashes quivering gently, those full red lips trembling slightly.

“Yes,” she says, softly, so softly, with uncertainty and hesitation, but the kind of hesitation that I recognize as being related to her traditional ideas of what a marriage is, what cheating is, what sex is. Ideas that I can tell are already changing, already being questioned, already being discarded as the two of us move forward into the unknown, into the wilderness of sexual adventure.

The few, the proud, the brave, right? Am I man enough for this? Is she woman enough for this? Is our marriage strong enough for this? I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

We’ll find out soon enough.